


Ever foolish in our own eyes

by zinjadu



Series: Wed to Blight [16]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alistair is just awkward, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Crush, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Male-Female Friendship, Pre-Relationship, but at a glacial pace, talking while drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-13 00:02:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16881795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinjadu/pseuds/zinjadu
Summary: The undead have been defeated, a demon driven back, and Lady Isolde and Connor both survived the events of Redcliffe.  Now the villagers turn to mourning their dead and having that finest of Fereldan traditions: a drunken wake.  And in the finest traditions of life and stories, two people say more than they intend to while inebriated.Re-hash of the "why didn't you tell me you were a royal bastard?" conversation... from Alistair's perspective.  Plus feeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelings.  Awkward, awkward feelings.





	Ever foolish in our own eyes

The scent of bitter alcohol and the sound of too loud voices hit Caitwyn simultaneously as she opened the door to the tavern.  After the dead had been sent out on small boats and burned, the village had still been in the grip of terror as they waited for more undead to descend upon them.  Only after Connor had been freed did the people of Redcliffe breathe a communal sigh of relief and quietly organize the wake.

Her arrival at the tavern, though hours into the event, was of greater notice than she ever could have imagined.  Leliana noticed her first, but said nothing as she was strumming on a lute and singing a lively tune. The tables had been pushed up against the walls and some of the younger villagers were dancing, flushed and drunk and celebrating being alive as much as they were celebrating the memory of those they lost.  Then those closest to the door recognized her from behind the haze of inebriation.

“Warden!” an older man cried out as he raised his mug in her direction.  More heads turned and the cheer was taken up, a chorus of  _ Warden _ ringing around the common room as mugs and glasses and a couple of goblets were raised in her honor.  Bella came forward, a tankard full of ale held out, and she said, “Glad you could make it.”

Caitwyn froze like a startled animal for half a heartbeat before she asserted control over herself instead of just reacting like an idiot.  She shifted her weight and canted her hip out just a little and dipped her head in acknowledgment of the greeting with an added a touch of self-deprecating amusement.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” she replied, forcing herself to slow down her speech and soften her lilt.  These folk understood her less well than the humans of Denerim, the people here used to talking like they had all day to speak.  Her Heroic But Humble Warden demeanor earned her sloppy smiles and another round of cheers. Bella gestured meaningfully with the tankard and with no way to refuse, Caitwyn took it in her own hands and ducked her head by way of thanks and glancing about the room to see if there was any kind of escape to be had.

Leliana was still strumming on her lute and had started a new song, while Wynne sat like a proud matriarch at one of the tables, a mix of all sorts listening to her for advice.  That Sten was here at all surprised Caitwyn. She had thought that he’d be like Morrigan and avoid the frivolity, but he was talking in low, serious tones to a cadre of young men who hung on his every word.  Occasionally, he would make a cutting gesture with his arm, as if demonstrating a sword technique, and she realized that’s exactly what he was doing. Zevran, meanwhile, leaned on the bar, speaking in low tones to the smith’s daughter.  Caitwyn had half a mind to warn the woman about the Antivan, but then she recalled how the young peasant girls in Denerim had dealt with a suitor who had come on too strong. Surely a country girl would be able to handle herself in a similar way.

Then she spied Alistair sitting a little bit off by himself, his back to the wall and toying absently with the tankard in front of him.  Her options were to mingle with a crowd of humans she didn’t know, or to sit with her friend. That was an easy choice. Weaving through the crowd, smiling and nodding whenever someone cheered her by, she eventually made it to the table and sidled through a small gap to reach the bench by the wall.  Alistair started as she made to sit down and scooted over to give her a bit more room. She settled next to him, and even though she knew how tall he was, he somehow always seemed to take up less space than he should. Now, he kept his shoulders down and leaned forward on his arms, making him appear shorter and slimmer than he was.

“So, what’re you doing sitting by yourself?” she asked, letting her voice speed back up again.  At least he’d gotten used to how she spoke and could understand her most of the time. 

“Oh, not one for putting myself forward, really.  Besides, its… it’s strange being back, now that we have time to stop and think about it.”  He waggled his eyebrows at the assembled crowd, and Caitwyn noticed how people seemed to be, if not exactly avoiding him, then not terribly interested in talking to him either.  A few younger women eyed him thoughtfully, but then turned away. Before she could say anything, he cleared his throat and leaned more heavily on his arms, making himself look even smaller still.  “Anyway, what’re you doing sitting here with me? Shouldn’t you be with your appreciative public? Not terribly exciting in this corner, really.”

She knew she should.  Go mingle or something.  But the very prospect of trying to make small talk with people she didn’t know, or worse, receive their praise, set off her urge to climb the tallest tower and not come down until everyone was passed out.  Maker, she was being called a hero for the simple fact that she’d been unable to watch a mother or child die. That wasn’t heroism, that was just being too sentimental for good sense. How did she explain that to anyone here?  Would they understand that her resolve to be practical crumbled the moment she saw helplessness swallowing a person whole? Even if she could explain it, she didn’t want to, not to people she didn’t know. Instead, she shrugged.

“Could do with a bit of not exciting for a little while, I think.”  She hunkered down as well, wondering if she made herself very, very small, no one would try to talk to her.  Give her a mission, a task, and she could charm or push someone into doing what she needed to have them do. But talking to grateful villagers like she was the hero they wanted her to be?  She didn’t have the will to sustain that mask, not at the moment.

“Hm, you’ve got a point there,” he drawled and then took a sip of his ale.  There was something still on his mind. She could see it in how he tapped his fingers on the table and feel it in the restless bouncing of his leg, making the bench vibrate along with it.

Leaning closer to him, she kept her voice low and said, “Go on, ask.  I know you want to.”

“I was that obvious, was I?” he asked.  He huffed and shook his head at himself, and flicked a speck of old food off the table.  It sailed into the makeshift dance floor and was quickly crushed under the heel of a girl high-stepping to the lively strains of Leliana’s lute, which was now accompanied by a simple flute played by a young boy.  “Alright, how do you do it? You come in here, and you’re just… different. People look at you, and you’re, I don’t know. This is weird now that I say it. Not yourself. Not that I think I know you  _ that  _ well, ah, I’m not saying this right.”

“You’re not wrong,” she said slowly, quiet underneath the music and the lively mood of the tavern.  She stared into her tankard of ale, shifting it in a circle on the table. “It’s, well. I told you I used to do second story work.  Among other things. One of those  _ other things _ was running confidence jobs.  Making someone think we were going to help them and then, well, not.  The exact opposite of help really. But I couldn’t be  _ Caitwyn Tabris _ while I did that.  I was someone else. All sorts of other people, the person they needed to see to make the job work.  Not too different from right now. They want to see a Warden, and I give them one. Honestly, this feels like the biggest confidence job I’ve ever pulled.”

“Well, here’s to being partners in crime, then,” he said, raising his tankard to her.  She raised her eyes from her own ale to meet his eyes. The torchlight flickered across their faces, making his prominent nose stand out, but also making his eyes look all the warmer.  A grin stole across her face, and she didn’t even try to stop it. Without a word, she clunked her tankard to his and they drank. 

Together, they watched as the people of Redcliffe drank and danced and did their best to remember that they were alive.  Then her grin grew wider, and a completely ridiculous thought popped into her head. 

“Hey, you want to learn a fun trick?”

 

* * *

 

“This is all your own fault, Alistair,” he grumbled to himself, not sure what he should do now.  He breathed in the warm night air, trying to clear his head a little. He should clear his head, but that was proving surprisingly difficult.  Whatever Zevran had started pouring for them had crept up on him, making it hard to think in a straight line. 

That had to be why he was sitting on the hill overlooking the lower village and not inside the tavern.  Clearly. It wasn’t that he was in Redcliffe again and there was no place for him. Or that Caitwyn hadn’t seemed to notice when he’d left.  She’d probably just been distracted by the crowd she’d attracted with her shell game, but it still bewildered him how quickly she put on different faces, how easy it was for her to be someone other than herself.  Maybe he should try that, not being himself. Could be a good change of pace at least.

Then Maethor was there, butting his massive, fuzzy head against Alistair’s shoulder with a high degree of insistence.

“What is it?  Someone fall down the well?” he asked, not bothering to keep his morose tone in check.  It’s not like the dog would find fault with him for that. He was a dog. Maethor barked, and Alistair thought it sounded peremptory and annoyed at the same time.  Now he was being scolded by the dog. Perfect.

“Fine, fine, what is it?” he asked, standing up, and at least his head was clear now.  Maethor barked again and closed his jaws, carefully at least, around Alistair’s wrist and dragged him back to the tavern where he let go and pointedly looked at the door.

“Alright,” he drawled and opened the tavern door, the dog at his heels.  It was disgustingly warm inside, between the summer heat and accumulated body heat, even though the wake as a whole was winding down.  Wynne and Sten had already left hours ago, but Leliana and Zevran were still there. Leliana was speaking softly with the new lady tavern keep, helping her clean and tidy behind the bar, while the Antivan was regaling some young man with a story that was probably at least half true.  

He couldn’t see Caitwyn.

Then he spotted the dark mass of her curls at the far back of the tavern, her small form mostly hidden by the broad back of some farmer’s son who hunched over the table they sat at.  He didn’t think she needed rescuing, not exactly, but if Maethor wanted his bonded person out of here, Alistair knew better than to argue with a Mabari.

“Right, you go back outside, I’ll tell her you’re sick, and we’ll get her out of here, alright?” he asked the dog, and Maethor sneezed in agreement, leaving through the still open door. 

“And we’re making plans with dogs now, yes, very worthwhile work as a Warden,” he said under his breath.  Before he could get to Caitwyn, however, she stood up, swaying as she did and her hand slammed down on the table to keep from falling over.  It was in that moment, Alistair realized that Caitwyn drunk. The farmer’s boy stood and tried to put a hand on her shoulder. If Alistair didn’t already know how fast Caitwyn’s reactions were, he would have been shocked.  As it was, she grabbed his hand and twisted, forcing him to his knees with a startled shout. Her mouth hung open in an ‘o’ of surprise and she stared down dumbly at the man she had just incapacitated. 

As entertaining as it might be to see a tiny, drunk woman take out a man several times her size, the man wasn’t alone.  His friends turned around at the shout and were muttering darkly, drunk enough to mistake Caitwyn for another elf. 

In a few long strides, Alistair reached the immanent fray and hauled the man up.  Robbed of her support, Caitwyn fell heavily against the table with her hip and muttered a curse.  The other men crowded around, and he started to wonder how he got himself into these situations. It was a drunken misunderstanding, and here he was, somehow the most sober person available.  Drawing himself up to his full height and squaring his shoulders, he tilted his head down and caught each man’s eye before plastering a wide grin on his face.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, very sorry to interrupt, must be having a lovely time I’m sure,” he said quickly, rolling over any and all attempts to get him to go away.  “Caitwyn, your dog’s sick, and you know how he gets. Won’t let anyone but you near him.”

“Oh no, did someone give him alcohol?” she asked, her face suddenly suffused with worry.  With a grunt of effort, she stood once more and blithely wove through the crowd of farmers and fishermen.  The men let her by, a few of them aware enough to belatedly realize they’d been about to harass the Warden who had saved their lives.  Caitwyn, meanwhile, carried on like she hadn’t noticed the impending danger. “I know he’s a Mabari, but really, that’s not good for him no matter what.  Book even said so, though I don’t know why someone needs a book to tell them  _ that _ .”

With an overly cheerful wave at the drunken men, Alistair followed Caitwyn outside, the relatively cooler air a balm after the closed in, overwarm confines of the tavern.  Caitwyn knelt down to examine Maethor. The dog put on a little bit of a show of being sick, whining and nuzzling at her pathetically, but Caitwyn frowned.

“He’s not sick, he’s fine,” she said, lilting voice slurred.  “Did he trick you?”

“One, I’m a little insulted you think the dog could fool me, and two, I know he’s fine,” Alistair told her as she stood on unsteady legs, one slim hand braced on Maethor’s back.  “I think he was worried about you, so he got me to help get you out of there.”

Caitwyn stared up at him, her blinking just a bit off from the drink, brows knit together in thought as she considered his statement.  Then she glanced down at her dog and gave him a pat on the head.

“Good boy,” she told the dog, and was rewarded with a pleased canine grin.  Then she regarded him for a long moment, one finger tapping her chin thoughtfully before gracing him with a drunken but pleased smile.  She patted his shoulder, though she missed one of those pats and swiped at the air instead. “You’re a good boy, too.”

“What?  No head pat for me?” he asked, teasing.  He walked forward slowly, and she followed without prompted like he had hoped.  He figured the best thing would be to get her back to the Castle and her room. Probably get some water and bread for her, too.  But he had to keep her moving, and making her talk would do that.

“Too tall,” she said accusingly with an indignant pout.  To emphasise the point, she waved her arm around in the general direction of his head as they walked.  She normally could keep up a decent clip even as short as she was, but with her unsteady gait Alistair felt like they were barely moving.

“Ah, yes, terribly sorry about that.  My most humble apologies for my height,” he replied.  She rolled her eyes, but there was a grin on her lips that transformed to a full smile.  Then her smile fled as her gaze turned inward.

“Thank you, for getting me out of there,” she said, eyes drifting away from his, her head turning so her hair hid her face.  “I was stupid. I really should have been more careful.”

“You weren’t stupid,” he told her, though he had the sense of being on uncertain footing.  He wasn’t sure why she was being so hard on herself for almost getting into a drunken bar fight.  As far as he was concerned, that was practically normal after all the demons and undead. Maethor barked, like he was telling Caitwyn that she shouldn’t be so down on herself, too, and at least that made her smile again, just at the edges.

“Still, thank you.”  Her voice was quiet underneath the running water of the falls as they reached the small stone span that lead back up to the windmill.  Her words were still slurred and she was unsteady, but the the cool spray of the falls seemed to revive her slightly. She halted on the arch of the bridge and that meant he had to stop, too.  Her brows drew down in slow, ponderous thought, so unlike her normal quickness. Then, apparently decided, she spoke again. “Alistair?”

“Hm?”  He took a step backwards, but she didn’t move to follow.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier, about…” she trailed off and gestured inarticulately.  “Your parentage.”

“Because you never asked?” he retorted, evading.  He wasn’t sure this was the best conversation to have while she was drunk, and he was probably still at least a little bit inebriated.   But she sat down on the bridge, her arms around Maethor’s neck, and his choices then became talk to her about this now or bodily pick her up and get her back to the castle.  Since he didn’t want to be kicked in sensitive areas, he sat opposite her on the slightly damp stone and hoped no one happened by.

“We’re friends, right?  And this. It’s not a small thing, this.  It’s a big thing, and knowing means we can be prepared.  Not knowing, it was… not good,” she said, honest confusion on her face.  He smiled, briefly, at that, at her admission that they were friends, but then the rest of it caught him up.  Did she think he was letting them fall into a dangerous situation because of who his father had been? Did she think he was willfully holding back on something that could land them all in a much worse situation?  

Well, since Zevran had attacked him in particular, he supposed he’d already accomplished that part of it.

“We  _ are  _ friends, I didn’t mean to… it wasn’t supposed to,” he fumbled at his words and then sighed.  “Let me explain.” She nodded and watched him, her large eyes glinting in the darkness. “The thing is, I’m not used to telling anyone who didn’t already know.  It was always a secret. Even Duncan was the only Grey Warden who knew. And then after the battle, when I should have told you, I don’t know it seemed too late by then.  How do you just tell someone that?”

She said nothing for a moment, regarding him thoughtfully, and he held her gaze.  This was a less than ideal situation, but she had asked, and well, he supposed she deserved an answer.  If she would remember it tomorrow of course. He hoped she would, so he didn’t have to do this all over again.  She rested her head against her dog’s shoulder, clearly intending not to be moved for a time.

“I can understand that,” she said softly, and he thought she did understand.  She’d been reticent about her own life before the Wardens, but she’d allowed a few admissions to come out piecemeal in the last month or so.  About her second-story work, and the confidence jobs, and hints about her family. He supposed when she’d never had much, it could be hard to remember to let other people share it.

“I… I should have told you anyway,” he told her, shaking his head at his own foolishness.  “It was important for you to know. I guess part of me liked you not knowing.”

“Why?  What happens when people find out?” she asked, frowning again, her normally sharp mind dulled by Maker knew how much liquor.  That bandy Zevran had took no prisoners.

“They treat me differently.  I become the bastard prince to them, instead of just Alistair.  I know that must sound stupid to you, but I hate the way it’s shaped my entire life.  I never wanted it, and I certainly don’t want to be king. The very idea terrifies me,” he explained the words spilling out in spite of himself, even though he hated how it sounded.  Like he was whining and small and weak. He knew,  _ knew _ , he should think of his duty, to his country, to his heritage, but it had never really been  _ his _ in the first place, now had it?  For some reason, just being himself had never been good enough.  Never would be good enough.

“That doesn’t sound stupid,” she told him.  She shook her head, but he only shrugged.

“For all the good it does me.  My blood seems certain to haunt me no matter what I do.  I guess I should be thankful that Arl Eamon is more likely to inherit the throne.  If he lives,” he told her, glancing up at the Castle where the man in question lied as though dead.  But he had other concerns right now, like wrapping this up and getting Caitwyn moving again. 

“For what it’s worth.”  As he spoke, he sat forward on his knees and held out a hand for her.  She hesitated for a moment before taking his hand, but when she did he had an errant thought about how nicely her hand fit in his even though her touch was light, as if she would flit away at a moment’s notice.  Careful not to crowd her, he pulled her up easily and stepped away. “I’m sorry about not telling you sooner. I… I guess I was just hoping that you would like me for who I am. It was a dumb thing to do.” 

“I  _ do _ like you, and not because of your blood,” she told him, so earnest and honest that it brought him up short.  Now he was  _ really _ wishing that they weren’t talking about this while she was drunk.  While he was thinking on that, she was preoccupied with regaining her balance, and she once again leaned on Maethor.

“Oh, I… oh.  You see, I didn’t know that.  I guess it’s kind of a relief that you know now,” he replied, because he hadn’t known that.  They got along fairly well, and she laughed at his jokes, but that didn’t mean she actually liked him, as in enjoyed his company and thought well of him.  And he realized how very much he wanted her to think well of him, to like spending time with him, because he certainly did like spending time with her. But he still had a task in front of him.  “Come on, let’s keep going.”

“Alright, probably should,” she agreed.  He kept pace with her easily as she concentrated on moving again, and though she kept a hand on Maethor to keep her steady, she was walking without wobbling quite so much.  Watching her out the corner of his eyes, he told himself he was just making sure he would be ready if she stumbled, but that was a damned lie. He knew it was because he couldn’t stop looking at her, noticing the way her delicate features were set in concentration as they walked up the path, or how the moonlight caught in the dark, nearly tangled curls of her hair.

No, he told himself.  Don’t think like that.  She’s a friend. A friend who happens to be pretty.  

Who liked him as he was.

Who thought he didn’t need to be anything other than himself.

He’d seen pretty women before, had even talked to them once or or twice.  But right now walking beside her, his heart thudded in his chest and his mouth had gone dry.  He was still drunk, that was the problem. He should get them back and see her safely to her room and turn in, too.  Get some sleep, clear his head. Maybe have a very cold bath to shock him out of his current flight of fancy. She kept saying  _ friends _ .  They were friends, and that was enough for him.  Besides, they were in the middle of a Blight! More important things to worry about, Alistair, he chided himself.

Occupied by his own thoughts, they walked the rest of the way to the castle in silence, only the sussuruss of the wind in the grass and the chirrups of insects in the warm night air.  He escorted her up to her room before raiding the kitchens to get a little bread and water for her. Thankfully, the castle itself was quiet, everyone either asleep or still at the wake down in the village, and he was able to walk these still-familiar hallways without having to interact with anyone.  Not that anyone here would want to catch up on the good old days, since few here would remember him or remember him fondly, save perhaps the Arl and Bann Teagan.

When he got back to her room, he found the door still half-open and Caitwyn lying face down on her dog.  Maethor had curled up on the bed and had the air of a dog with a job well done.

“Good idea, sleeping, but not before you have this,” he told her, waving the bread under her nose.  Though he was careful not to grab her shoulder. He didn’t want to end up like that poor farmer down in the tavern.  That wrist-lock was one Sten had taught her, and it  _ hurt _ .  He should know, having been her practice dummy once or twice.

With an effort of will, she levered herself off of Maethor and dutifully ate the bread before downing the water in a single pull.  Then she curled back around her dog, her eyes closing. He took the glass from her and walked out of the room as quietly as he could manage, but just as he was about to close the door she spoke.

“Alistair, remind me not to drink with Zevran again,” she said with a voice muffled because her face was once again pressed into Maethor’s furry side.

“Promise.  Good night, Caitwyn,” he said, and his unhelpful brain suggested that even her  _ name _ was pretty.  That everything about her was pretty, her name, her eyes, her accent.  That she was pretty past her face and voice, that her heart was kind even after she’d seen more than her fair share of suffering and pain.

“Night, Alistair,” she mumbled.  He shut the door with a soft click as he backed out of the room.  It was foolish, he knew, to look at her and see anything other than a fellow Warden and a friend.  

But he supposed he’d always been a bit of a fool.


End file.
